


lover, it's us

by wtfmulder



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-12-11 05:46:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11708064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtfmulder/pseuds/wtfmulder
Summary: Scully calls Mulder hours after she visits his apartment in Amor Fati. Prompt was phone sex before they first kiss.





	lover, it's us

“I cannot, with good conscience,” Scully starts, skipping her customary phone greeting. “–Kiss a man who’s recently had brain surgery.”

“It’s probably bad form,” he replies, and while the pain meds dry out his mouth and turn his limbs into spaghetti, this druggy feeling is a new thing entirely. A relief that warms his bones, a hesitance that cramps his fingers around the receiver. “Hippocrates would never approve.”

“But you are aware that was my intention,” she says, ignoring his joke. The voices are fading now, and only those who think quite loudly bleed in to mingle with his own fuzzy thoughts. Never would he have thought he’d miss his inner voice. It comes to him in large and small doses, moreso when the headaches begin.

But Scully’s thoughts are clearer still, for she’s the loudest thinker of them all. He licks his lips to simulate the feel of her fingers pressed to them.

She wanted to kiss him.

“The assumption crossed my mind,” he admits, shifting his legs underneath the Navajo blanket. “I was feeling pretty amorous myself. It was a good moment.”

She speaks it under her breath, _a good moment_ , disbelieving in a way that lets him know that was the wrong thing to say. But it’s hardly fair of her to expect him to be surprised. He’s been tuned into her station for a pretty chunk of time now, and it just so happens to be his favorite. Sorry, Scully. “To tell you the truth Mulder, I’m nervous. Very much so. And I didn’t want to be in the room with you when I said these things because of your… condition. But I’ve come to realize that time is an enemy.” How many bodies will they bury, before they're forced to join them? "If you’re too out of it, however, we can return to it later.”

“Go on,” he says, not certain that’s the right answer. If she called thirty minutes earlier, so soon after she’d clicked out of his signal, he’d be foaming at the mouth. He feels woozy and unsure.

“Mulder, you trust me.”

“Scully, you might not be able to read my mind but you have ears.” The idea that she might not get, or hadn’t _felt_ the gravity in his words, that they hadn’t weighed her down with his gratitude, his need – he doesn’t know how long he can keep doing this, putting it all out there only for it to be ignored or worse, second-guessed. “I just told you, in the doorway –”

“I’m saying that I know that you trust me.” Okay. It’s good to hear her say that. He nods to himself and closes his eyes as she continues. “I know… that you hold an affection for me, that you value my friendship, just as I do yours. I know that you rely on me, as I rely on you. But Mulder…” let the silence push her forward, let it bring her to him. “Do you _want_ me?” 

He winces, feels slightly like a schoolboy being caught with something racy, not yet with his pants down but maybe with his hand on the zipper, and drags himself away from the corner of the couch to sit properly, with his elbows on his knees and his head cradled in the palm not holding the phone. 

“I feel like it should be obvious.” Especially, _especially_ when you wear that black bra under that button up you forget is just this side of mercifully sheer. Your God loves and hates me on those days. He feels like it should be obvious, and she should feel ashamed for making him admit something so painfully obvious.

“It really, really isn’t,” she says testily, her voice tight as his stomach, and the guilt is mild but there. Of course she doesn’t know. She denies what’s in front of her every single day of her life. He started this, so it’s time to stop leaving her hanging. Scully doesn’t share his sexual hangups. She doesn’t joke, or even look at him the way he catches himself looking at her, but – on cases, sometimes, after they’ve retreated to their separate rooms for showers and psychological reinforcements, he has noticed, hasn’t he, how much easier her laughter came, the sleepy glint in her amused eyes, how she would lie back on the bed in her own definition of exposing herself, fully dressed, stretched out and too casual and too fond of him as he ran his field notes by her for her nonapproval. In those moments he wanted nothing more than to crawl in beside her and prove to her that he could do it better. He knows her better.

Well, he guesses he’s getting his chance, along with the warning that he’s running out of them. He goes with the truth.

“There isn’t a single thing you could offer me that I wouldn’t take, Scully.” In a voice like jagged stone, made deep with sincerity and his intrinsic neediness, “Of course I want you. That’s just… written there, like genetic code. If you were to sequence my DNA I’m sure you’d find it.”

A beat of nothing. Not even background noise. He finds his confession neither freeing nor embarrassing. It just is. 

Then she responds, “I think we can do this without me whipping out the microscope.” And she says out loud her thoughts he’s been gorging on since he was aware she had them. “I want you too.” 

It does not feel revelatory like he expected it would, but there is a curiosity, stronger in his mind than his groin, and a unique feeling of rightness whereas the subject often leaves him anxious. _That_ is what feels so freeing. 

“I – where are you, Scully?” He asks, straightening up and then leaning his head on the wall. “You went back to the office, right?”

“OPR pulled me in for some more questioning, but I’m packing up to go home,” she says lightly. Mulder backtracks. He hadn’t meant to change the subject.

“I wanted you to kiss me. I was pissed that you didn’t, actually. I wore my good cologne.” He lowers his voice playfully, pushing vowels past a thick and nervous tongue. “You left me hanging,” and he huffs out a laugh, “and you didn’t even let me wear my hat.”

“I always pictured it as spontaneous,” she remarks a tad wistfully, and he thinks of her and how quickly she draws out her weapon. Then her tone changes. “Mulder, what are you wearing?”

A full out laugh, now, barked like a happy dog. “Nothing but my heart on my sleeve, here, and a sense that someone’s about to come here and shoot me.” Like he’s gone mad and needs to be put down, for good this time. He’s trying to ride the absurdity of this phone call the way he rides all absurdities – with style and panache and his customary roguish charm. He is having difficulty.

“C’mon–” you are _purring_ , Dana Katherine Scully, “I know you know how to do this. What do you normally say?”

“You took my lines,” he pouts, dragging his hand down his chest. The idea that Scully isn’t joking hits him in the gut and he nearly drops the phone. “Wait. Scully. Are you actually trying to…”

“I’ve built this expectation, I think, that once we’ve come to our senses we’d work on some of the more… structural issues of our partnership.” Oh. “I expected it might take days.” _Oh._

“Oh,” Mulder says. “I guess I picked the wrong week to go under the scalpel, then.”

“Don’t make a habit of it, is all I’m asking.” She pauses. What is she doing? He imagines her sitting primly in his office chair. That’s not right. When she sits in his chair she tends to sprawl, like he does. She’s sprawled out and trying not to smile. He is smiling, edgy, with a touch of gorilla fear, but also happy, relieved, waiting. “There’s this dream I keep having. I’ll let you interpret it.” Her voice curls around the edges. She is smiling, but it’s the breathlessness he focuses on. “It’s daylight, and I’m walking through a field. There is a gentle breeze, and I can almost feel the grass tickling my ankles. But then I trip. I’m falling.”

“Oh, that’s easy. _Interpretation of Dreams_ 101\. You’re nervous.” With his own stupid grin pressed to the phone and the heel of his hand making acquaintance with the waistband of his jeans, he asks, “Do I make you nervous?”

“You make me ache,” she says seriously. Okay then. He forgoes his teasing, plucks expertly at the buttons of his fly. They are doing this then, because Scully does not kiss her invalid suitors, but finished them off instead. “I’m falling, expecting to hit the soft ground. But Mulder,” shyly, “You’re there.”

“Underneath you?” He asks, almost bashful, hand stopped on his zipper.

“Yeah.” And then she sounds embarrassed, like she’s revealed too much. “Not exactly the most titillating story, I guess. I chose the wrong one.”

“It’s perfect.” He means it. Scully hasn’t said the words but he’s pretty sure that was “I love you.” Jesus Christ. He is hard, and he wants to laugh at himself; he should have known that’s the kind of crazy shit that gets him off these days, the idea that the object of his affection affects for him in light, with flowers, with hope and fluff and a cringing, girlish romance he’d never, ever expect from her. God, he’s hard and he’s a little high, and Scully wants to fuck him in the sunshine. He tugs off his pants and boxers and chooses to put her out of her misery.

“I have my own dreams,” he tells her, taking his cock into his shaking hand and lifting his legs up, so that he’s lying down. “Want to hear about them?”

“Oh God, please,” she says self-deprecatingly, like she’s already beat her head against the wall. He takes pleasure in this. No woman has ever considered him a person to be embarrassed in front of. No woman has ever thought of him that much.

“We’re on a case, and we’ve just gotten back to the motel. We promise to reconvene for dinner but we uh, gotta shower first.” Her sharp intake of breath lets him know she knows very well where this is going. He lets his head loll back onto the armrest and pumps himself once, twice, licks his lips before just rushing into it. “I always notice, Scully. Your whole – your whole body changes. You get flushed, and–” he gasps, she gasps, they are great partners. “You’re looser, like you’ve melted. Your voice gets lower.”

“Yes?” She almost growls, evidence for his assertion. Oh, he loves her. She always finds a way to validate him.

“ _Yes_. In my dream, though, I don’t let you tease me.” He chuckles, lift his hips up to push through his tightened fist. Watching himself helps him focus. The tip of his reddened cock points towards him, and he stares as it disappears and reappears. “That’s what you’re doing, right? Teasing me?”

“Me? Never,” the innocent tone she affects gets ruined by the drawn out whimper. She’s in the office, he suddenly remembers. He didn’t think he could feel more desperate to get back to work.

“I don’t say anything. You don’t say anything. You’re wearing those silk pajamas you like so much. I look at you, and you know you’ve been caught. But before you say anything I’m slipping off your pants and your underwear, whatever I noticed the last time I saw your own suitcase, and _Scully_ …”

“Yeah?” She asks brokenly, high pitched and desperate. Most definitely she is doing what he is doing, and he flits back and forth between what she must look like cupping her breasts in the office with her skirt pulled up around her waist, and the Scully in his fantasy. A new model sharing prime time with the old one, the images do not compete; he wants both, fiercely and to the point of mental exhaustion, and only now does he feel like he’s got a chance of ever recuperating.

“You’re so _wet_ ,” he grunts, snapping his eyes shut and picturing it in his own private, well attended theater. “I see it before I feel it, the evidence of what you get up to when I leave you alone. You’re swollen – when I drag my fingers through it, they come back slick. When I look up at your face to ask my question, you’re smiling.”

“Your question?” She pleads, and for his benefit: “I'm… right now. Slick and so very…” Scully in the office, her panties tugged to the side and her oft-abused lower lip between her teeth. Scully in his dream world, giggly and heavy-lidded.

“Are you wet for _me_?” An answer to her inquiry, and his own pressing question. He doesn’t really need the confirmation; he can hear it over the phone when he strains, the sounds of her filling herself in all the ways he’s so far failed to. But when she says _yes,_ , when she curses to God and begs him to touch her, he comes to the line and straddles it, precariously, reeling top-heavy with ego and lust. “I couldn’t – you… so hot, you knew that I knew, oh _fuck_ , Scully…”

“I never finished,” she hisses. He can feel the warm wet air through the phone, it caresses his ears and neck and shit, shit, shit, are you close, yesyesyes, me too, “I-never-finished wanted you to–”

“You wanted me to make you come?” He chokes out, a guttural cry tripping him up as he swells in his hand and the image asserts itself vividly. Scully pressing herself to the shower wall, hand moving rapidly between her legs as she trembles and jerks and _prepares herself for him_. I would do it better, he’d thought every time, not knowing she hadn’t done it at all, that she was waiting, that her slightly spread legs and her pretty blushing face were an invitation for him to make her complete. 

“I wanted you,” she says simply, and it starts in his back, a burn that hurts as much as it pleases, travels through unused limbs and fingers and imprints something nameless in tender, oversensitive brain matter. Scully is her mind and her strength and her loyalty and her slick, hot cunt, and she fucking _wants_ him, so he comes for her as an acknowledgment of that fact, paints his thighs and belly with his promise and his need for her. All the while he listens as she falls apart for him, as she finally gets the release she’s been after all these years. It’s a knockout performance. She’s pitchy and earnest and sweet like he’s never heard from her, and he’ll never forget it – never, not even when she does it again.

She regains her wits before he does, naturally. “I should have kissed you,” she says. The certainty blows him away.

“I’ll do it.” He promises. “I’ll figure it out.”


End file.
